


Waking Up Alive

by TweekTweak



Series: Waking Up Alive [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, One Shot, Suicide, im sorry i have literally no excuse, one instance of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 08:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5620510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TweekTweak/pseuds/TweekTweak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then he starts running, almost pulling me over before I run too, letting him lead the way. Not once does he let go of the tight grip he has on my hand. We’re several streets away when we stop, both gasping for breath. He drops my hand and collapses down into the snow, lying on his back and making a snow angel.</p><p>“Tweek, you’re twenty five years old,” I tell him.</p><p>“So?”</p><p>I consider this for a minute, and then shrug and lay down beside him, making a snow angel of my own. So?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Up Alive

**Author's Note:**

> I FINALLY finished this fic I've been working on since October 2014. I also can't seem to write Craig without him being severely depressed.

_Message received on April 12 at 3.16am._

“Hello? Are you there? Listening? I’m just trying to get in touch, man. I’ve been so fucking, so fucking down lately. Like, I don’t know what’s happening, I’m just so tired all the time. Trying to sleep, I just, I just lay there, quiet… I can’t speak because everyone around me is passed out. My fucking mind is raging… Uh, hello? I don’t even know why I called. I think it, I think it might be time for me to leave, just call it quits; I’m sick of this! It’s the same fucking day, every day. I think I sleep, but I can’t be sure though; it’s all the same now. Drink, drink, drink again. I’m tired man. I think it… You don’t want to hear this. I’m a mess. I’m sorry man, I just didn’t know who to turn to. No one really hears me, you know? I speak… at least I think I speak, but no one hears me… I’ve said enough. Hello? Hello? I shouldn’t have called.”

_Message deleted._

(Never Alone // The Amity Affliction)

xxxxx

I hang up the phone. I hadn’t really expected any of my friends to answer my calls in the first place; besides the fact that it’s the middle of the night, they never really pick up anyway. Still, it was worth a shot, so I’d phoned them, if only for something to do to distract me from the half-drunk bottle of vodka sitting on my untidy kitchen counter. I’d even left my best friend a long depressing voicemail which he’ll probably not take seriously when (if) he listens to it. Sighing, I sit down on one of the breakfast bar stools and pick up my drink, swallowing a mouthful and wincing a little as it burns my throat. I cap the bottle and place it down again, brushing a pile of takeaway menus aside to clear a bigger space for it.

I stare at my mobile, hoping desperately that the screen will light up with a text, or a call, or anything to show my friends still give a shit about me, but to no avail. I think of all the suicidal ‘jokes’ I’ve been making over the past few months, and how I would laugh along with my friends while silently praying that one of them would pull me aside and ask, “Craig, dude, are you okay?”

Still, I can’t blame my friends for this mess I’ve landed myself in.

If I’d actually gone to school now and again instead of skipping constantly I might have gotten better grades; with better grades I might have been able to find a better job than working the cash register at KFC. And if I had a better job then I might actually have some money left after paying the rent and heating bill for my flat, and be able to keep the fridge stocked with something other than a pint of milk and a packet of bacon.

If I’d been a better partner then I might not have walked in on my then-fiancée in bed with another, better looking guy (who most likely had a better job than I did, too). And she might not have told me that she was leaving me to be with him, before packing her clothes into a suitcase and leaving that same day, taking off her engagement ring and letting it fall to the floor at my feet. If I recall correctly, that was the day that the world turned to literal shit around me; she’d been my rock, and without her to pour the remainder of my alcohol down the sink every time I was binge drinking my depression away, I ended up fucking dependent on the stuff.

…which leads me on to how weak willed I am. If I’d been stronger then maybe I wouldn’t be hitting the bottom of vodka bottles on weeknights and turning up to work late every day, bedraggled and hungover; I might have been able to reach out to my friends more, tell them that something is really fucking wrong, instead of dropping casual hints that no one ever picks up on; I might not have started killing myself slowly with the cigarettes that I swore I was quitting when I was nineteen.

I might not have found myself here, sitting in my untidy kitchen at three in the morning, drinking hard liquor, calling friends who don’t really care that much about me, and stubbing out cigarette after cigarette onto the overflowing ashtray that I can’t be bothered to empty.

I’ve been here so many times before that it could almost be considered my daily routine, but today something’s different. Running my fingers through my already unkempt black hair, I silently wonder if I should do this, picking the length of rope up off of the kitchen unit where it’s been sitting for about two weeks now and just staring at it. This isn’t the first time I’ve been considering this; heck, I actually _did_ attempt eight years ago when I was still a senior in high school. Looks like some things never change, eh? I laugh bitterly. The only difference now is that my mom isn’t around to call an ambulance before I’m actually dead, so I can get the dirty deed done this time.

I weigh up my options; either I can keep drinking myself into an early grave and watch everyone I love leave me; or I can take the easy way out right fucking now. It doesn’t take much deliberation.

I pull the crumpled suicide note I wrote a couple of days ago out of my hoodie pocket and unfold it, my eyes scanning over the several lines of scratchy handwriting.

_Mom, Dad, Ruby; I’m sorry. I love you all. Not your fault._

_Clyde, Token, Tweek; I love you guys. Not your fault either._

_Sorry again,_

_Craig Tucker._

I snort; I never really had a way with words. I suppose it doesn’t matter now, though. I set the note down on the counter, before standing up and dragging the bar stool into the middle of the room, directly below the ceiling fan. Kneeling on the stool, I fix the rope to the fan and I feel like I’m seventeen again, still kneeling in my wardrobe trying to hang myself with a fucking tie. I slip the noose around my neck.

Just as I’m about to kick the chair out from beneath me, my phone starts vibrating where it’s still sitting on my kitchen counter, the screen lighting up to tell me I have an incoming call. I hesitate, but sigh and pull the rope back over my head, before hopping down from the bar stool. Picking up my mobile, I see that the call is from Tweek.

“… Hey?” I answer.

“Craig!” Tweek sounds worried, which isn’t unusual because he’s always been a pretty stressed out guy, “Are you okay, man?!”

“Yeah,” I lie, wishing I was brave enough to tell him the truth.

“Don’t bullshit me!” he scoffs, “I was so fucking worried you wouldn’t pick up because you’d… gah!”

Tweek stops talking and neither of us speak for a few uneasy moments.

“I mean, J-Jesus, I woke up to go for a piss, and then I got that voicemail you sent me… I’m really worried about you!”

“Don’t be, I’m fine!” I lie a second time.

“Are you drunk?” Tweek asks and I tell him that I’m not, despite the obvious slur in my voice.

“You are!” he accuses, “Craig, I’m coming round.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell him, “It’s four in the fucking morning.”

“I don’t care; I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t do anything stupid.”

I sigh, but drag the stool back to the breakfast bar and sit down. I don’t have the energy to take the rope down from where it’s still dangling invitingly, so I don’t bother; if Tweek confiscates it then I can always go out and get more after he decides I don’t need to be held on suicide watch. Or I could go round to my parents’ house and borrow the gun that my dad keeps under his bed, or swallow the entire contents of the medicine cabinet with a bottle of vodka.

There’s a knock at the door.

“It’s open,” I shout, and he lets himself into my small flat.

I hear him push open my bedroom door before closing it again, and check the living room before he finally walks into the kitchen and freezes when he sees the noose hanging from the ceiling fan.

He stares at it for a moment, his mouth hanging open, before he wordlessly pulls me into a tight hug. I wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his right shoulder. He pats my back gently as I begin to shake slightly with the tears I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Tweek shakes too, although I can’t tell if he’s also started crying, since he’s always been a bit twitchy.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he soothes me, still not releasing me from his tight grip.

When he finally lets go he sits down beside me, and it’s only once he sits down that he spots the suicide note that’s still lying on the kitchen unit. He picks it up and starts reading, and I light a cigarette as he does. For once Tweek doesn’t complain about second-hand smoke, and simply sets the tatty sheet of paper back down onto the counter and asks me the simple word I’ve been waiting for.

“Why?”

I take a deep drag on my cigarette and think for a moment. Why?

Why couldn’t I find anything worthwhile to do with my life? Why did my ex cheat on me? Why am I getting more and more distant from my friends as the days go on? Why am I drinking so much? Why am I smoking so much? Why is there a noose hanging in my fucking kitchen?

Instead of answering I simply shrug, exhaling a plume of grey smoke. I pick up my near-empty bottle of vodka and go to take a drink but Tweek grabs the bottle from me, and stands up, walks over to the sink, and pours the remaining alcohol down the drain, ignoring my protests.

“The last thing you need right now is more booze,” he tells me seriously, setting the empty bottle down on the counter with his shaky hands. “You need to get some help for this, s-seriously! If I had known that you really wanted to, y’know, kill yourself, I would have said something months ago. I mean, you kept making jokes, but none of us were ever sure if you were really-”

“Suicidal?” I cut across the blond, “Yeah, I was.”

“I’m so sorry, Craig,” Tweek says, even though he has nothing to apologize for.

“It’s okay,” is all I answer, stubbing my cigarette out on the kitchen unit beside the overflowing ashtray.

xxxxx

Tweek sits up with me for the rest of the night, and calls Token and Clyde just after eight o’clock.

I stare into the black coffee that Tweek made for me as he unties the length of rope from the ceiling fan and stuffs it into the pocket of his jacket. Neither of us say anything.

Clyde and Token show up at around half past nine, and Clyde tells me that he’d kill me if I ever died. I force a small laugh, and go to refill the kettle. I scoop some instant coffee (Tweek glares at it distastefully, used to the ‘proper’ coffee from Tweak Bros.) into a chipped mug and pour the freshly boiled water into the cup. My hand trembles and I spill the scalding water across my free hand. I flinch a little, but before I realize what I’m doing I tip the kettle again, pouring more of the hot water across my already stinging hand. And the next thing I know I’m sitting crumpled on my kitchen floor, back against the cupboards, with Tweek kneeling in front of me and a worried looking Token and Clyde hovering in the background.

“Craig?” Tweek’s voice seems a lot more distant than it should be. “Craig, dude?”

Tweek starts seriously panicking, a habit he’d mostly grown out of since he was younger, and Clyde pushes him away so he can talk to me instead while Token tries to calm the worked up blond down.

“Craig? Can you hear me?” Clyde asks me seriously. I try to speak, but my mouth doesn’t seem to be working too well, as if it’s out of sync with the rest of me. I frown miserably and don’t answer, feeling tears rolling down my cheeks.

Clyde turns round and says something to Token and a moment later the latter walks over, bends down, and scoops me up. He carries me through to my dark bedroom (I can’t remember the last time the blinds were up) and lays me down on the unmade double bed, before pulling the duvet over me.

“Craig? You passed out, dude,” he tells me, his voice sounding less distant than Tweek and Clyde’s did, and this time I manage to reply with a quiet, “Oh.”

“Tweek is really worried, but we’re going to get him calmed down, and after you’ve had some sleep we’re going to talk about this. First we need to fix up your hand though; you burned it pretty badly.”

A couple of minutes later Tweek walks through the door carrying a basin full of water, and he sets it down beside me on my bed. He’s still shaking, but is calm enough to take my burned hand and gently place it into the cold water, without letting go. My hand starts to tremble from the cold after he’s held it there for a couple of minutes, but it’s significantly better than the stinging pain after I initially scalded it so I say nothing.

I feel Tweek’s thumb brush across my palm and I shiver a little, looking up at my friend, but he’s not looking at me and is instead angrily mouthing something to Token who is frowning at him from across the room. I figure that they’re silently discussing me, but I’m not in any fit state to protest, so I make do with succumbing to the waves of surprising calmness that wash over me every time Tweek dances his fingers across my hand.

Token leaves the room after a few minutes, and finally Tweek turns to look at me.

“You okay?” he asks me, and I nod. “… You really scared me earlier, you know. With the voicemail, I mean. You sounded s-so,” Tweek stops to search for a word, “Um, hopeless, and when I called you I was so worried that I’d be too late to s-stop,” he twitches, “Stop you from doing something stupid.”

“You worry too much,” I inform him.

Tweek’s grip on my hand tightens, and he looks away from me. “Imagine if I hadn’t woken up when I did,” he continues, “Imagine I hadn’t bothered to listen to your message, or call you back… S-shit dude!”

“Yeah, well, I’d be gone by now. I’d have got what I wanted,” I say dully.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Tweek tells me, then, as if on impulse, he leans down and presses his lips lightly against my forehead.

He then immediately returns to nursing my scalded hand, pulling it out of the cold water and wrapping it in a towel, while I’m still frozen in shock. I lift my free hand and brush the pads of my fingers over the spot Tweek’s lips graced. Tweek himself says nothing, and simply picks up the basin of water and carries it out of my bedroom.

xxxxx

When I wake up, I wonder briefly if I dreamt this morning’s events, but one look at the makeshift bandage wrapped around my burnt hand tells me that I didn’t. I unwrap the towel to find my hand is a little blistered, and has turned an unattractive shade of red. It hurts a hell of lot less than it did earlier though.

Sighing, I kick off my duvet and stand, walking through to my living room where I find Tweek, Clyde, and Token sitting watching TV.

“Make yourselves at home,” I grumble, feeling the nip of a headache coming on. I turn and leave the living room again, wandering through to the kitchen to find some painkillers.

Discovering an old packet of aspirin at the back of one of the kitchen cupboards, I grab it and turn around to get a cup of water, just about jumping out of my skin when I find myself facing Tweek.

“Sorry!” he chuckles, “Didn’t mean to scare you.”  
  
“It’s fine,” I wave him off, picking a clean glass up off of the drying rack and filling it with tap water.

“I did the dishes for you,” Tweek tells me. I nod, having guessed it would have been him; he was the kind of neurotic person who _would_ clean your dishes for you after you tried to kill yourself.

 _I just wish it was me he was cleaning up, instead of my dishes._ I cringe at my own thought, glancing over at the blond man who’s standing watching me. I place the glass of water down on the unit and pop four aspirin tablets out of the foil wrapper, and catch Tweek raising an eyebrow at me.

“What?” I grumble, “I have a headache, it’s not like I’m swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills.” Yet, anyway.

“I know, I know,” he says, “I just wanted to make sure that-”

“I’m on suicide watch,” I say, before popping the painkillers into my mouth and swallowing them with a mouthful of water, “I get it.”

I pour the remainder of the water down the sink before walking past Tweek and back into the living room where I sit down on one of the threadbare sofas and stare blankly at the TV, not paying any attention to the storyline in the shitty drama Clyde and Token are watching. Tweek sits down beside me quietly.

“You okay, Craig?” Token asks. I shrug in response.

“… Um, one of Clyde’s friends offered to talk to you, if you wanted. He’s a doctor…”

I groan, and hope that my friends aren’t seriously going to force me to speak to some stupid psychologist about my problems or whatever.

“Thanks guys,” I say, “But it’s really fine.”

I pick up the remote and flip through the channels, hoping that they’ll drop the subject.

“No, Craig, it’s not fine!” Clyde’s voice is angrier than I expect it to be, and I cringe a little. “Do you have any idea how we would have felt if we came round to find you dead? Did you even think about us at all while you were hanging the rope? What about your mom and dad? What about _Ruby?_ ”

“Clyde,” Token scolds him sharply, “This isn’t the time.”

Clyde scowls, but grumbles a, “Sorry, dude,” a minute or so later.

Privately I know Clyde’s right; I’m a fucking dickhead. Honestly, who puts their friends through this kind of shit? Next time I try I’ll lock the door. They don’t have to find me; that can be left to the asshole landlord.

None of us speak. I try to watch TV, turning on a stupid quiz show, but I can barely comprehend what the contestants are saying. Feeling three pairs of eyes burn into the side of my head, I don’t look up, and instead fiddle with a loose thread on my jeans.

“Craig, I really think we should talk about this,” Token says eventually.

I don’t answer and instead stand and leave the room, going through to my bedroom where I collapse down onto my bed. I wish my friends would just fucking leave. I won’t even kill myself the second the front door closes, I swear!

My friends don’t leave though, and instead follow me and sit at the foot of my bed.

“We’re going to have to talk about this sometime, Craig,” Token says and I groan.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“We thought you’d gotten better after graduation,” Clyde says, “I mean, obviously there was that shit with Hayley, but we never thought that it got this bad.”

I scowl darkly at the mention of my ex-fiancée’s name. “Yeah, well, it did.”

“We really think you should speak to someone about this Craig,” Token says, “For us, if nothing else?”

“There’s no fucking way I’m speaking to some shrink about my problems,” I growl, knowing full well that they’ll probably make me an appointment anyway, “You guys don’t need to worry about me, honestly.”

All three of them frown at me. Tweek sniffles a little.

“Can you just leave?” I ask eventually, “I just want to sleep.”

It’s not a lie. My head is still throbbing and I just want some peace and quiet and to spend a good three days or so in bed.

Clyde, Token, and Tweek look at each other for a moment.

“I’ll stay,” Tweek says and the other two nod.

“We’ll come round with some stuff later,” Clyde says, and Tweek digs his keys out of his pocket, hands them to Token, and tells them to pick up some of his clothes from his apartment.

“You really don’t have to stay,” I tell him and the blond stares at me.

“Yes I do.”

I consider arguing with him, but I’m too tired so I give up, roll over, and shut my eyes. I hear Clyde and Token leave a few minutes later.

The mattress dips slightly beside me and an arm is wrapped around me. I open one eye and it’s met with Tweek’s green ones. He offers me a small smile. I close my eye again. Then hug him back and shuffle a little closer to him.

“Try and get some sleep, Craig,” he says softly.

“’Kay,” I reply, and when I’m beginning to doze off I feel him pull the cover up over us both before placing another soft kiss on my forehead, and I don’t know if Tweek sees me blush, but I’m sleeping before I can even wonder.

xxxxx

When I wake up Tweek is still lying beside me, fast asleep.

I don’t know how much time has passed, but my bedroom is considerably darker than it was earlier (although it’s always pretty dark what with the blinds being permanently down). I stretch, then glance at the clock on the bedside table; eight thirty at night.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, thinking about the day’s events and how fucked up they’ve been. Almost as fucked up as that one time I went to Peru.

I jump when someone knocks on the front door loudly, and feel Tweek stir beside me.

“Craig?” he murmurs sleepily, rubbing his eyes. “Shit, I fell asleep.”

“It’s okay.”

“Was that the door?”

“Yeah, it’ll be Clyde and Token, probably.”

“What time is it?”

I tell him, and he sounds surprised. “That late, huh? I’m surprised they weren’t round sooner. Do you want me to go to the door?”

“Please,” I say and he gets out of bed, his clothes slightly crumpled. He leaves the room and after a moment I hear quiet voices from out in the hallway.

There’s a short conversation, most of which I don’t catch, before the front door closes and it’s quiet once more. Tweek pokes his head round the bedroom door.

“The guys brought some groceries. Do you want to make something to eat?”

I’m not particularly hungry, but nod anyway and Tweek smiles before ducking back out of the room. I sigh and get out of bed, sluggishly following him through to the kitchen. He has already started unpacking the groceries and I muck in, dumping a block of cheese and a packet of bacon and a bottle of milk in the fridge, before finding a bowl to empty the bag of apples into.

Once the shopping has been put away I collapse down onto one of the bar stools and light a cigarette.

“What do you want to eat?” Tweek asks me, and I tell him I’m not bothered.

“We could make macaroni?” he suggests, and I shrug.

“Sure, I guess.”

After I smoke my cigarette and stub it out in the ashtray (someone has emptied it), I force myself back to my feet. I open the cupboard where I keep my assorted cooking utensils (not that I’ve used them much lately; usually I just bring home some KFC at the end of my work shifts) and find a cheese grater hidden behind some pots. I fetch the block of cheese from the fridge and start grating it into a bowl, feeling Tweek watching me (probably ready to grab the grater if I start shredding myself instead of the cheese).

Eventually he busies himself, digging a pot out of the cupboard and setting it down on top of the stove before boiling the kettle. He tips some macaroni into the pot and fills it with the hot water before turning the ring on.

“I haven’t made macaroni for ages,” he says, picking up the half empty bag of pasta ready to put it into the food cupboard.

“Don’t poison us,” I say and a bit of pasta hits me on the side of the head. Tweek giggles.

“Do you doubt my cooking skills, Tucker?”

Putting the cheese grater down on the unit, I retaliate by taking a pinch of grated cheddar from the bowl and sprinkling it into his hair.

“Of course not, darling,” I wink at him.

“This means war,” he laughs, flicking another bit of macaroni at me. “Anyway, how can you go wrong cooking _pasta_?”

“We could probably manage it somehow,” I shrug, and several more pieces of macaroni are launched my way.

I take a handful of cheese this time and throw it up into the air, letting it rain down all over Tweek (and myself), and eventually half of the grated cheese is gone and the bag of macaroni completely empty, now scattered all over the kitchen floor.

Tweek and I are in hysterics, collapsed on the floor, still picking up random pieces of macaroni and flicking them at each other.

The pot on the stove starts bubbling over. “Shit,” Tweek yelps, jumping up to move it off of the ring.

“I don’t think there’s enough cheese left to make sauce,” he comments, and in response I stand and grab the bowl of cheddar, turning it upside down above our heads and sending us back into fits of laughter.

Eventually Tweek fills two bowls with the macaroni and cuts some small blocks of butter to melt over it.

“Not the finest meal I’ve ever made,” he laughs, taking two forks from the cutlery drawer and passing me my dinner.

Privately I think it’s the best pasta I’ve ever eaten.

xxxxx

“Token and Clyde made you an emergency doctor’s appointment for Tuesday,” Tweek tells me when we’re sitting watching TV after dinner (and after we’ve both washed our hair to get rid of any lingering pieces of shredded cheese).

“I fucking hate those guys,” I grumble, not really meaning it. I think back to the doctor I spoke to after my first attempt. He had been a right nosy asshole; I swear he could have written my biography by the time he let me leave.

Tweek looks at me. “Craig,” he says.

“What?”

“We’re all so worried about you.”

I sigh heavily; are we really doing this again?

Tweek doesn’t push it and we’re both silent for a while.

“Oh!” the blond yelps suddenly, “I just remembered! The guys brought round some bandages so I can wrap your hand properly!”

He stands up and grabs the bag of clothes and stuff that Token and Clyde had picked up from his apartment for him and, digging through them for a moment, he pulls out a strip of bandages.

“Tweek, it’s fine, honestly,” I tell him, but he just shushes me and tells me to hold out my injured hand. I do so, and let him bandage it up. He kisses the back of my hand softly once he ties the bandage, and I feel my cheeks pinken a little.

“Uh, t-thanks, Tweek.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

So I don’t, and we turn back to the TV and sit up in a companionable silence for the rest of the night.

It’s four thirty when I start yawning, and Tweek tells me that I should go to bed.

“You can sleep in my room if you want,” I offer, “I’ll take the couch.”

Tweek shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it; Clyde and Token brought a blanket round for me earlier, I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure,” I’m too tired to argue, and stand up to stretch a little, stiff from sitting so long. “Night, Tweek.”

“Goodnight, Craig.”

I leave and go through to my bedroom, kicking off my jeans and crawling into bed. I shut my eyes but as soon as they close I feel like I’m wide awake and open them again.

Staring at my bedroom ceiling, I find my mind wandering over to the dark place Tweek’s presence has managed to keep (mostly) at bay all day. And when the tears come I can’t stop them.

“Craig?” my bedroom door opens slightly, “Are you alright?”

“Go away,” I grumble, pulling the covers up over my head. I hear soft footsteps pad over to my bed. The mattress dips as Tweek sits down beside me.

I sniffle a little.

“In high school you told me ‘only pussies cry’,” he says softly, “Remember? When you found me in the toilets after I flunked my English test?”

“Great. I’m a pussy now,” I say, my voice thick with tears.

“I think you’re very brave, actually,” Tweek says matter-of-factly and I laugh despite myself. Nothing about this situation shows me in a brave light, and I voice this opinion.

Tweek pulls the covers back and looks at me, his green eyes glinting slightly in the faint light from the hallway. Neither of us speak and eventually he sighs, wiping the tears from my cheeks before lying down beside me.

“Remember when those guys made us fight in third grade?” Tweek asks and I make an affirmative grunt. “Pretty weird how far things have come, eh?”

“Yeah,” I agree, “Pretty weird.”

Somehow our hands find each other in the dark.

xxxxx

I wake up to light streaming in through my bedroom window and groan, shielding my eyes to stop them from burning. Tweek must have opened the blinds.

My nose is blocked up and my head feels groggy, and I put this down to all the crying I did earlier. I feel mildly embarrassed about this, but don’t dwell on it and grab my phone to check the time. ’11:46am,’ it reads, ‘Monday, 13 April.’

“Shit,” I swear loudly, realizing that I have work today, and I’m late for my shift _again_. There’s no way I’m going to be able to afford my rent this week, I stress.

Forcing myself to get up, I find my uniform crumpled up under my bed and pull it on, swearing again when I can’t find my trainers anywhere. I try the living room, spotting them lying discarded in the corner and I pull them on, going through to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee before I’ve even tied the laces.

Tweek is sitting on one of the bar stools, holding a mug of coffee in one slightly shaky hand and a half eaten slice of toast in the other.

“Good morning,” he says, looking up when I enter.

“I’m late for work.”

“You really think I’m going to let you go to work?” Tweek stares at me incredulously, “Craig, you tried to kill yourself the other night; you’re allowed to take a few days off.”

“I need money to pay the rent, Tweek!”

“I’ll pay it for you,” Tweek shrugs, “It’s no biggie. Besides, I already called your work and they’ve agreed to let you stay off for a few days.”

I open my mouth to say something but the blond cuts across me. “Don’t even think about arguing, Craig, this isn’t up for discussion.”

I huff, but relent and busy myself with filling the kettle; I don’t have the energy to argue anyway. I can’t resist making a snippy comment though. “Finally got over your fear of the toaster popping, then?”

“Fuck off,” Tweek replies, but I can hear the smile in his voice.

While the kettle boils I go back through to my bedroom to get changed, and return a few minutes later wearing a pair of trackie bottoms and an old Red Racer t-shirt that I’ve had for god only knows how long. It’s been stretched a little out of shape over the years, but it does its job.

“You still have that?” Tweek asks, eyeing the garment. He sounds amused.

“Yup,” I reply nonchalantly as I make a cup of instant coffee.

“I’m surprised it still fits you. How old where we when I got you it? I think it was your… sixteenth birthday?”

“ _You_ got me this?” I ask, surprised. I look down at the shirt and think back to my sixteenth, vaguely recalling pulling it out of a gift bag and hugging Tweek. “Oh yeah! What do you know?”

Tweek chuckles as I stir my coffee

I pick up my mug of coffee and tell Tweek I’m going to watch TV, before plodding through to the living room and collapsing down onto one of the sofas. Tweek’s blanket is sitting folded up on the arm, and I chuckle slightly; of course his blanket was bright pink.

Tweek follows me into the room with his own coffee and sits down beside me, pulling his blanket over us both before picking up the remote and flipping through the TV channels, eventually stopping on a rerun of The Lion King.

I try to concentrate on the movie, but my head is still a little groggy. I light a cigarette as Tweek starts humming along to Hakuna Matata.

“Hakuna Matata, Craig,” he says to me, “It means no worries.”

“Hmmm,” I reply and Tweek snuggles up next to me and sighs, resting his head on my shoulder. I take a drag on my cigarette.

“You should stop smoking,” he comments and I grunt noncommittally. Somehow I don’t see that happening any time soon.

Tweek doesn’t push the subject, and goes back to watching the film, humming along with all the songs. “Scar is my favourite character,” he says conversationally after a while.

“Why’s that?” I ask him and he giggles.

“Because he reminds me of you; he has black hair, and he’s a bit of a sarcastic asshole!”

I swat at the blond, but chuckle. “Pumbaa is my favourite,” I tell him.

“How come?”

“Because he’s a fucking great character, have you ever even watched The Lion King?”

We watch TV for several more hours, and eventually my head clears up a little bit.  At about three-ish, Tweek suggests that we do a bit of housework.

“You’ll feel miles better if we tidy up a bit,” he tells me, and he’s probably right.

“C’mon,” he takes my hand and pulls me up off of the sofa, and we set about doing some chores.

I don’t feel like my input is worth much; even the simple job of sweeping the floor exhausts me, but Tweek beams and tells me I’ve done a great job. Easy for him to say; in the time it took me to sweep the living room and the bedroom he’d already washed the dishes and taken the bins out and picked up all the dirty laundry from my bedroom floor and dumped it in the hamper.

Although I do feel a little better now that the housework has been done, admittedly, and I tell Tweek this. I expect an ‘I told you so!’ but he just smiles and hugs me tightly.

“I’m glad.”

xxxxx

“Craig.”

“Hmph,” I grumble tiredly, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, “What is it?”

“You need to get up now; your appointment is in an hour and a half.”

Fuck. I open my eyes. Tweek is standing in the doorway in his pyjamas, holding a mug in each hand.

“Can I come in?” he asks and I nod, yawning. “I made you a cup of coffee.”

He sets it down on my bedside table and sits down beside me, taking a drink from his own mug and running his free hand through his blond hair.

Grabbing the mug from the table, I take a drink of coffee, and try to think of a way of getting out of this appointment. I come up blank. Tweek probably won’t let me miss it anyway.

“Do I have to go?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He looks at me. “Don’t be difficult, Craig.”

“I’m not, I just don’t like doctors.”

Tweek’s face softens a little. “I know. But please go, for me? I’ve been so worried about you.”

I sigh in defeat, feeling bad for putting my friend through this. “Fine,” I say eventually, “But I’m not happy about it.”

All too soon we get to the doctors surgery, and when we walk into the reception I somehow manage to resist the urge to run as far away as I can. While we’re sitting in the waiting room I close my eyes and try to even out my breathing which has gotten a little erratic.

“Fucking hate seeing doctors,” I grumble. Tweek strokes the back of my good hand and quietly tells me it’ll be okay, and it helps a little, I guess.

Tweek smiles at me encouragingly when the doctor calls out, “Mr Tucker?”

“I’ll be here waiting,” he promises, and I follow the doctor through into his office.

Mercifully he doesn’t question me as much as the last doctor I spoke to about my mental health. He reads through my file on the computer and asks me about my mood, and my eating and sleeping habits, and if I smoke or drink or take any hard drugs, and after twenty or so minutes he passes me a prescription.

“Antidepressants,” he explains, “One every morning. When they run out I’d like you to make another appointment, okay?”

I nod, and he stands and leads me to the door. “Thank you for coming today, Craig,” he smiles, opening it, “See you soon.”

“How was it?” Tweek asks, jumping up from his seat when the doctor closes his office door.

“Okay,” I shrug, showing him my prescription.

“We can go and get that filled and then run some errands,” he says, and even though I really just want to go home for a lie down, I let him drag me to the chemist to get my prescription, and then to Walmart so we can pick up some essentials like milk and coffee (which Tweek used up pretty quickly in the two days he’s stayed with me).

While we’re standing in the checkout line, Tweek is reaching for a packet of gum from the shelf when he spots the small display of little packets of glittery stickers.

“Oh my god, Craig,” he points them out to me, sounding excited, before grabbing three packets and dumping them with the rest of our shopping.

“We don’t need three packets of stickers, Tweek,” I tell him, “In fact, we don’t need _any_ stickers.”

“Yes we do, grumpy,” he laughs, and stubbornly doesn’t let me put them back on the shelf.

“That’s three dollars you’ll never get back,” I grunt after he’s bought them, and he just shrugs.

“Worth it.”

When we’re unpacking the shopping back at my flat I toss the packets of sparkly stickers at Tweek who tucks them into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Fucking five year old,” I grumble and he just laughs and opens the fridge to put the bottle of milk away.

Once the groceries have been sorted out we collapse onto one of the sofas in the living room. Tweek immediately rips open one of the packets of stickers and peels a sparkly butterfly off of the plastic sheet, before sticking it right on the tip of my nose. Then he sticks a glittery heart underneath my left eye, and a star under my right one, and eventually the first packet of stickers is gone and my face is covered in a zoo of glittery animals and a whole galaxy of stars.

“Super cute,” he comments, sounding satisfied with his handiwork, and I fold my arms and pretend to be annoyed.

“Ok, pass me a sheet of those fuckers.”

He does, and I take a little sticker of a ladybug and pop it straight on to the tip of his nose somewhat ceremoniously. Then a star beneath his left eye and a heart under his right, and soon enough Tweek is also covered in stickers and is giggling away.

“I _told_ you we needed these!” he laughs, and okay, whatever, maybe they are _kind of_ cute, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to admit that.

I think Tweek somehow knows what I’m thinking though, because he rests his head on my shoulder and smiles.

The stickers stay on our faces for the rest of the day.

xxxxx

I can’t sleep.

I take a swig from the bottle of Jameson whisky I keep hidden under my bed.

I blink and a tear escapes from my eyes, running down my cheek slowly. _Fucking pussy_.

I take another drink.

Here we are again.

There’s nothing left in the bottle and I scowl, setting it down on the floor and lying on my back, staring up at my bedroom ceiling.

Tweek is fast asleep. There’s no one to talk to. Do I want to talk? I don’t want to talk. My breathing is getting irregular. I need to calm down. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.

I sit up sharply. I want to die. Fuck.

I light a cigarette and take such a deep drag that I start coughing, the smoke hurting my throat as I splutter it back up.

My head nips.

I stand and go through to the kitchen on a mission to find some aspirin.

There’s none in the cupboard and I figure that Tweek probably hid the packet, not wanting me to try and kill myself with a handful of painkillers or something.

Scowling, I pick up a mug from the drying rack, ready to make a cup of coffee, if only for something to do.

“Fuck,” I yelp when the mug slips out of my shaky hands and shatters into hundreds of pieces on the floor. Staring at it, I briefly consider taking one of the shards and slicing my arm to shreds, but quickly shake the thought away. What would Tweek say?

Sighing heavily, I grab the broom from where it’s sitting in the corner, ready to sweep up the shattered ceramic, jumping when a voice speaks behind me.

“Craig?” Tweek pokes his head round the kitchen door, looking like he’s still half asleep. “What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I tell him.

“What happened?” he asks, eyeing the broken mug.

“It slipped out of my hands,” I answer as I start to sweep it into a pile, and he doesn’t say anything but takes the broom off of me and tells me to sit down. I do so, and let him brush up the mess.

Once the broken mug has been swept up into a small pile, Tweek sits down beside me.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” he suggests, and I laugh.

“It’s four in the morning.”

“So?”

“It’ll be freezing outside.”

“Wear a coat then.”

Eventually I let Tweek talk me into going out (I know I won’t be sleeping any time soon anyway), and go through to my room to get dressed. Pulling on a pair of jeans and zipping a jacket up over my pyjama shirt, I grab the blue chullo that I’ve had for as long as I can remember, and find Tweek in the hall pulling a hoodie on over a button up shirt.

“Ready?” he asks me, grinning when I nod.

“As I’ll ever be,” I shrug, and pull my hat on over my unkempt hair.

He grabs my hand and leads me out of my flat. I lock the door behind us, stuffing my keys into my pocket, and we walk downstairs and out of the building.

“Where are we going?” I ask him.

“I don’t know.”

And then he starts running, almost pulling me over before I run too, letting him lead the way. Not once does he let go of the tight grip he has on my hand. We’re several streets away when we stop, both gasping for breath. He drops my hand and collapses down into the snow, lying on his back and making a snow angel.

“Tweek, you’re twenty five years old,” I tell him.

“So?”

I consider this for a minute, and then shrug and lay down beside him, making a snow angel of my own. So?

When we stand, I notice Tweek shivering slightly, and wrap an arm round him. He snuggles into me as we walk, still shaking a little. I stop and take my hat off, and pull it onto Tweek’s head over his blond hair and right over his eyes.

“Cute,” I comment as he pulls it back up from over his eyes and he glares at me for a moment before bursting out laughing.

Wrapping my arm back around him, we start walking again and find ourselves at Starks Pond.

Collapsing down onto the bench beside the water, I look up at the sky; the stars are still shimmering faintly despite the orange glow on the horizon. Tweek looks up at them too and sighs contentedly, leaning into me slightly. We sit like that for a while, watching the stars fade away as the sun slowly rises, and at some point a set of cold fingers brush across and entwine with my own.

“Tweek,” I look down at the blond who peers up at me curiously, his eyes sparkling a little in the low light. I lean down and brush my lips over his, before pulling away and looking back up at the sky.

“Craig.”

Nothing more is said.

xxxxx

When we get back to my flat we both pull off our jackets and collapse down onto my bed, exhausted, and I wrap an arm around the blond who snuggles into me. I’m humiliated when I wake up with a boner that he has definitely noticed prodding him in the back, and go bright red when he laughs so much that I think he’s going pass out. There’s no malice in it though, and when he plunges a hand into my boxers he does a damn fine job of getting me off indeed.

We lie in bed beside each other for a while after, until the clock on the bedside table tells us that it’s past noon.

“I have to piss,” Tweek announces, kicking the covers off and getting up, almost falling flat on his face when he trips over something on the floor. He bends down to pick up the offending article, and oh _shit_ ; it’s the fucking empty Jameson bottle.

“Craig? What’s this?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, ashamed.

“Do you _really_ think that you should be drinking? You and I both know what kind of state you were in on Saturday.”

“I know, but-”

“ _But,_ ” Tweek scoffs, and oh shit, he sounds really pissed, “But what?”

I don’t know what to say. That I’m used to putting away a bottle of hard liquor a day? That a part of me wishes he hadn’t come round on Saturday night? That I still wish I was fucking dead?

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Of course you are.” I’m shocked at how cold his voice is.

“Look, I never asked you to shack up here. If you hadn’t invited yourself round the other night I’d be dead right now, and then we’d all be much happier, wouldn’t we?”

I hear the words fall past my lips, and they disgust even me. Tweek stares at me for a moment looking crushed, before he turns and leaves the room.

I wait for the front door to slam, but it doesn’t. Of course he won’t leave me here alone; not while I’m a ‘danger to myself’ or whatever.

I cover my face with one of my pillows and shout a string of profanities into it. I briefly consider going to apologize, but decide to leave it and let things cool down a bit, and I’ve chain-smoked four cigarettes and seriously considered the possibility of jumping out of my window head first and hoping the fall would kill me before he knocks on my bedroom door.

“Craig,” his voice is quiet; if the door hinges had creaked any louder I might not have heard him speak.

 “I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m so sorry.”

He sets a cup of coffee down on the bedside table as he sits down on the bed. “Peace offering,” he explains.

“Thanks.”

“I know I was… A bit harsh earlier,” he says, “But it really isn’t healthy for you to be drinking alone, especially when you’re depressed like this.”

“I know,” I reply dully, and I do, I really do, it’s just that sometimes whisky understands better than my friends ever could.

“I hate that you’re feeling like this,” Tweek says, almost as if he can hear my thoughts, “I just want you to be happy.”

“Sorry,” I hang my head, ashamed.

 “Do you have any more alcohol stashed anywhere?” Tweek asks, “Because my uncle who was an alcoholic used to hide it and…”

I visibly cringe when Tweek says ‘alcoholic’ (even though that’s probably exactly what I am at this point), and he inhales sharply. “Oh god… Jesus, I wasn’t trying to call you an- Shit, I just meant do you have any more alcohol? B-because if you do we need to get rid of it,” Tweek backtracks, staggering through his speech like he did back in elementary school.

Wordlessly I open the bedside table drawer to reveal a half drunk bottle of vodka and an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. I consider fetching the other bottle of vodka from my wardrobe but find myself unable to; what if things get bad? What if I _need_ a drink? Tweek doesn’t have to know.

Silently Tweek picks up the two bottles and sets them down on the bed. Neither of us talk for a while, and I sip my coffee for something to do. Tweek starts absently humming what I recognise to be the Red Racer theme song.

“I just want you to be okay,” he says eventually, and I don’t know how to reply because so do I. I just don’t know _how_ to be okay, because if I did we wouldn’t be here now.

I offer Tweek a small, sad smile and hope that he’ll understand. He sighs, and takes one of my hands in one of his own.

“Come on,” he says, passing me one of the full bottles of liquor before grabbing the other in his free hand, “Let’s go and pour this shit out.”

I allow him to lead me through to the kitchen, where he uncaps the bottle of vodka and pours it down the sink, before moving aside. I uncap the bottle of Jack Daniels, take a swig for good measure, and albeit reluctantly pour the rest of the drink away.

“Thank you,” Tweek says from beside me as we watch the alcohol disappear down the plughole. “Please try to stay away from the stuff, Craig. I don’t want to watch you piss your life away.”

“Tweek, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember,” I grumble, pulling my packet of cigarettes out of my pocket and lighting one, “Stopping now isn’t going to make much difference.”

“It’s never too late,” Tweek shakes his head sadly, “But I guess it’s not my place to tell you what to do. Please just think about what I’ve said.”

And I do think about what he’s said. All afternoon while I stare blankly at the TV his words creep into my conscious mind. “I’m worried about you”, “you’re very brave”, “don’t piss your life away”… I ball my hands into fists furiously; the constant blackness in my head was bad enough before, now, with the added guilt of letting Tweek down, it was becoming positively unbearable. I look across the room at the blond who has dozed off on the other sofa at some point, curled up underneath his pink blanket.

Pressing the standby button on the remote to silence whatever shit is playing on TV, I get up and creep out of the living room.

I stand in the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror for a while, my head screaming at me. How the fuck can Tweek stand being around me? If I was him I would have been gone by now. Fuck, if I was Tweek I wouldn’t have come round in the first place. I scoff at my reflection; my hair greasy and matted beyond belief, my face still covered in spots in the middle of my twenties, the dark circles under my eyes so bad they take up half my fucking face. I briefly consider taking a shower to try and sort my hair out at least, but I probably can’t get the stupid bandages on my stupid burnt hand wet. Tweek would probably hate me if I did.

He finds me sitting in the shower half an hour later.

“Craig?” he calls from the other side of the bathroom door. When I don’t answer he announces that he’s coming in in five, four, three…

“Shit!” he yelps when he sees me, sitting back against the shower wall underneath the running water, still wearing my boxers and my fucking bandages. He shuts the hot water off.

“Craig?!”

When I start laughing I can’t stop, and his face contorts from concern to confusion to a mix of both.

“Dude, what is it? What’s so funny?”

I keep laughing, my wet fringe glued to my forehead, my damp skin prickled with goose bumps, my fucking bandages soaked through.

“I got my bandages wet,” I manage eventually, lifting my bad arm to show him.

“Craig, what-?”

“I got my fucking bandages _wet_ ,” I laugh again.

“So?” he looks at me strangely, “I can put some fresh ones on for you, it’s no biggie.”

I laugh again, quieter this time. “Fuck. Fuck!” I smack my head back against the tiles. “FUCK!”

“Craig,” Tweek yelps, “Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself!”

“Why won’t you hate me?” I ask. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“What?”

“Please hate me!” I shout, “Hate me! Go away!”

Tweek looks scared, takes a step back as if I might hit him. Pulling myself to my feet, I take a step towards him and raise a fist threateningly and he yelps, backing right into the bathroom door. “Craig, please.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Tweek,” I growl, tears pricking in my eyes as I hear the horrible noise leave my mouth.

“I can’t leave you alone,” he whimpers, “N-not like this.”

“Fuck off, Tweek!” I snarl, taking another aggressive step towards him, and wondering if I’d really have it in me to hit him.

I don’t have time to find out though, because the front door is already clicking shut.

xxxxx

“Craig!”

A fist is slammed against the front door

“Open this fucking door right now!”

I don’t move. I don’t even divert my blurry eyes from my bedroom ceiling.

“I swear to god, if you don’t open this door I’m going to kick it in!”

A foot collides with the door once, twice, three times. I hear the faint sound of splintering wood.

“Craig!”

xxxxx

‘ _I’m so sorry, Tweek._ ’

I type the text message out, my vision blurred. I didn’t open any of the messages from Clyde, or Token, or my mom and dad, or Ruby. Not even the ones from Tweek himself.

Rubbing the tears from my eyes, I press send and drop my phone to the kitchen floor where it collides against the tiles and cracks. Taking a swig of vodka from the one bottle I kept, I grab the packets of aspirin tablets from the kitchen unit, and turn off the light. I check that the (splintered) front door is locked and continue through to the bathroom. Staring at myself in the mirror, I laugh and open the bathroom cabinet, grabbing any and all pill bottles I can find; even my fucking antidepressants. I suppose they’ll get their job done in the end. I won’t have to suffer through this hell anymore. Stuffing them into my hoodie pocket, I go through to my bedroom and collapse onto my unmade bed.

I even take a little time to deliberate.

xxxxx

“Craig!”

I can’t tell which of us is crying. Maybe we both are.

“How could you do this to me?!” he grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me, “How?!”

“I’m sorry.” I can barely manage the words. My throat feels like it has been shredded with razor blades.

More vomit. So much vomit.

“Yes, I need an ambulance.”

Blurred vision. Blurred at the edges. I can barely feel where I end and the bed sheets I’m sinking into begin. My throat constricts. I can hardly breathe. I didn’t think it would hurt so much. I deserve to hurt. I deserve to rot in fucking hell. Black spots dance into my peripheral vision and eventually consume it.

“Fuck!” I’m pulled upright, and I throw up again.

Voices speak faintly, frantically in a foreign language. Someone is crying. I cry with them in a depressing duet.

“Craig, please,” their voice is choked, “I love you.”

I try to reply, but all that I can manage is a strangled sob as more tears spill from my blind eyes.

My ears ring. The voices dance away, growing fainter and fainter, but I only miss one. I can still hear it screaming at me in the distance, its cries anguished, broken.

Detached; ripped out of my body. I can barely feel anything, but I still pick up on fingers entwining with my own. Or maybe I just imagined it. I float in and out of consciousness and in and out of myself, drifting higher and higher with each shallow breath.

“Please don’t leave me.”

The hands holding me loosen. I can’t hold myself up. I fall farther than I’ve ever fallen.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was meant to have a happy or at least ambiguous ending but I can't help myself I am sorry. BUT I liked writing this so I may make a sequel in the future who knows.


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